


II. When I'm Small

by notablyindigo



Series: The Better Half [2]
Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-13 21:18:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1241092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notablyindigo/pseuds/notablyindigo





	II. When I'm Small

“Joanie?”

Someone is shaking her awake, their fingers digging into her shoulder, and this time, Joan swears, she’s going to kill them, circumstances be damned.

She forces her eyes open and the shaking stops. Carrie is standing next to her bed in the on-call room, a banana in one hand and her pager in the other. She sets them on the end table, then climbs onto the narrow bed. Joan rolls onto her side to make room, and Carrie scoots closer, tucking her body up against Joan’s.

“Your shift starts in fifteen minutes,” Carrie says, her voice still hoarse from the cold they’d both had the week before. “I brought breakfast. Get up.” Joan groans and throws an arm over Carrie instead.

“If I have to get up right now, I’m pretty sure I’m going to die,” she mumbles into Carrie’s hair. Her throat feels like sandpaper, the dry December air scrubbing her mucous membranes raw. She doesn’t remember the last time her toes were actually warm. Carrie chuckles, and Joan can feel the vibrations in her chest.

“How much sleep were you able to get?” Carrie asks, craning her neck so she can look back at Joan. Her eyes are bloodshot, and Joan guesses that hers probably look exactly the same. She glances at the clock on the wall. 4:15AM.

“Maybe forty-five minutes?” Joan croaks. “I assisted Dr. Dixon on that tumor resection and then got caught up on my charting.” She gestures toward the thick stack of files at the foot of the bed. “I would’ve gotten at least an hour and a half, but then there was that Code Blue.” Carrie rolls over onto her stomach, burying her face in the pillow. 

"Did they resuscitate the guy?" she asks, voice muffled. 

"No, they’d already called it by the time I got there." Joan raises herself up on her elbow, properly awake now, and reaches across Carrie for the banana. "He was older anyway," she says, peeling the banana from the bottom. "Only a 12% chance of successful resuscitation." Carrie snorts. 

"Thanks, Encyclopedia Joan," she says wryly. Joan grins, and plants a quick kiss on Carrie’s temple. 

"Remind me to tell you about the time I was on Youth Jeopardy," she says, climbing over Carrie and off the bed. Carrie gives her a bemused look, then shakes her head and gropes at her feet for the blanket. Joan grabs it and tucks it around Carrie’s shoulders. 

"How’s the ER looking?" she asks, tossing the banana peel and clipping her pager onto the waistband of her scrub pants. 

"It was pretty quiet when I was there," Carrie says, adjusting the pillow under her head. "A couple of broken bones, a kid with a seizure. Surgery board’s quiet, but you never know." Joan nods and checks the time. 4:22AM. Just enough time to grab a coffee before her shift. 

"Okay, I’m heading out. When’re you off?" 

"Shift ended half an hour ago, but I still have to chart," Carrie grumbles. "Quick nap, then charting, then home for another nap." Joan smiles and adopts an expression of mock-shock.

"Two naps in one day, now that’s luxury." Carrie looks up from the pillow and sticks her tongue out at Joan. 

"I have a date tonight; I need my beauty sleep." 

Joan finds her smile fading somewhat.

"You don’t need beauty sleep, Carrie," she says softly, and it’s a stand-in for what she really wants to say, as everything is these days. She pauses, then reaches for the doorknob. "Get some rest. I’ll see you later." 

She makes her way to the coffee cart in the lobby, being sure to ask for an extra shot of espresso, then heads toward the ER. Even from a distance, it’s a bustling hive of activity, and she can tell that the calm situation Carrie described has long since passed. 

A tall, wiry redheaded man—the chief resident—appears at her elbow as soon as she passes through the double doors separating the ER from the rest of the hospital. 

"Watson, good to have you," he says, handing her a patient chart. "I was just looking for an extra pair of hands." She greets him and flips open the chart, thumbing through it. "Bed #5," he says, jerking his thumb toward a curtained patient care station. "Get to it."

Joan approaches, pulls the curtain back. The chart had said: that the patient was a white male in his 20s; that he had sustained a laceration on his upper arm during a vehicle collision; and that he needed stitches. 

It hadn’t said that he was cute.

"Hi, Mr. Danow. I’m Dr. Watson. I understand you need some stitches this morning." 

The man looks up at her, holding a bloodied gauze to his arm, and grins.

"Please," he says, extending his right hand for her to shake. "Call me Liam."


End file.
